Convincing You (Sensing Series Book 2)

by J. M. Adele

  After dragging my stiff body from under the covers, I slipped into some pyjamas and tied my hair in a ponytail. I lurched for the door, eager to leave. But as I reached it, I paused. With my grip strangling the doorhandle, I arranged my face into some semblance of happy. On the other side of the wooden barrier, my sister would be lounging in front of the TV, probably eating cereal. It was her Sunday morning routine.

  This is no routine Sunday.

  The last person to walk out this door had been Ben. What had I done so wrong to make him run?

  My brow scrunched as my tear ducts prepped for a deluge.

  I gritted my teeth. Don’t you fucking dare. I wasn’t going to cry over a man. If he wasn’t able to handle the magnitude of us then he didn’t deserve my tears.

  I waltzed out, determined to put on a show for Bree, and aimed for the kitchen.

  “Hey,” she mumbled through a mouthful of food.

  “Morning. How’d you sleep?” I poured myself a glass of juice.

  “Mm. Good.” Her spoon clinked on the bowl. “What time did Ben go home?”

  I stiffened at the sound of his name. Poising my drink at my lips, I prepared to douse the burn at the back of my throat. “Before midnight. He only just made it before he turned into a pumpkin.” I tipped the juice, gulping it too fast as she laughed.

  I choked, launching into a coughing fit. It was the perfect cover for the spring of tears. The bastards got past my guard.

  “Are you okay?” She dumped her bowl on the coffee table and jogged over to me.

  “Yep,” I gasped. “Wrong tube.” Slapping myself on the chest, I reached for the paper towel.

  “What time are Mum and Dad getting back?”

  I blew my nose and caught my breath before answering. “Around dinner time. Wanna help me cook a nice meal?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great.”

  Let’s soak everything in alcohol and flambé the shit out of it.

  Maybe I could do that to my sheets?

  And the mirror.

  _____

  I’d called four times and left messages. He hadn’t replied. Mum and Peter had come home that night and I’d had to pretend that there wasn’t an empty space where my heart had been. He’d run off with it and dumped it somewhere on his way to ghosting me. At least he’d done the same with the used condom.

  I’d been mechanical in my routine—eaten dinner, had a shower, gone to bed, gotten up, gotten dressed, eaten breakfast, gone to school.

  Now here I was heading to fourth period. I pulled out my phone, checking for any messages. My face fell at the missing envelope icon at the top of the screen.

  “Oh, shit. What’s wrong with you?” Pauline approached me on the path leading to our class.

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay. I believe you. Not.”

  “I don’t think I can talk about it without bawling like a baby.”

  “I won’t ask.” She pursed her lips and peered at me through the corner of her eye.

  “He ghosted me.”

  “Prick.”

  “I know I didn’t do anything wrong. Things were going great.” I threw up my hands. “He freaked. Things got real and he freaked.”

  “Sounds like it. Ben’s the dependable type.”

  “Not so much. I don’t know what to do.”

  “There’s nothing you can do. The ball is in his court. If he needs space, give it to him. What’s the first rule of dating?”

  “Don’t chase.”

  “Exactly. Guys are built for the hunt. If he wants you, he’ll come and get you when he’s ready. Then you decide if he’s worthy.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Just keep doing you, girl. Chase the goals, not the man.”

  She was so right. I sent up a prayer of thanks for having her in my life. “I love you, Pauline.”

  She hooked an arm over my shoulders. “Love you too, sweetie.”

  _____

  Emmeline

  Hampshire, England

  13th July, 1867, 2:56 p.m.

  My father paced the floor of my bedroom as I lay curled on my bed. Left to right. Hands clasped behind him, eyes on his polished boots, he marched to the head of my bed and spun on his heel, before turning back the way he came. His nostrils flared as he pulled in air and forced it out again. We had been locked in this stand-off ever since he’d dragged me kicking and screaming to my room. Could it have been half an hour? An hour? I did not know.

  His footsteps stopped and he twisted to face me. I stared at his belt buckle. Would he choose to use it as a punishment?

  “I find it difficult to understand how my daughter—my daughter—could defy me in such a way.”

  I had not defied him. He had defied me. He had decided who I was to marry without consultation and without consideration of my heart’s desires.

  “Speak!”

  “What would you have me say?”

  He scoffed before landing a heavy blow across my cheek. I whimpered, soothing the sting with my palm as I pushed my face into the mattress.

  “How long have you been consorting with the servant boy?”

  If I answered truthfully, Marybeth would be in trouble and Uncle Tobias would be without his mistress. For the first time, I found myself empathising with a man I had previously considered self-serving, unctuous, and fickle. What if they were truly in love? What if my uncle had been forced to marry Lady Margaret to satisfy societal expectations when his heart yearned for another?

  “Not long.” More than half our lives.

  “Who else is aware?”

  “Nobody.” I met his bloodshot stare.

  “And it shall stay that way.” He set off pacing again. “The earl is furious, as he is well within his rights to be. He has agreed to follow through with our arrangement. You are to be married in our chapel in the morn.”

  “The morning? The wedding was to be next month.”

  “Do not speak out of turn!” He delivered another slap to the cheek.

  I hissed, stretching my mouth against the pain. It would come as no surprise if his discipline resulted in bruising.

  “You are to remain in your room until you are sent for. Your chambermaid will be assisting you with preparations. Once you are married, you will be the earl’s concern. He may choose how he deals with you. I pray that he has a merciful hand.” He stomped from the room, slamming the door at his back.

  Holding my cheek, I used my elbow to push myself up. Still wearing the shirt and buckskins, I shuffled around the bed and took a seat at the dresser. The sight that greeted me in the mirror was not unexpected: red eyes, cheek aflame with the outline of my father’s hand. Hair in disarray. Tears streaking my face. I picked up a pitcher and poured some water into the washbowl it had been resting in. Taking the cloth Marybeth had set beside them, I wet it before placing it against my sore cheek. The cool provided little relief. I washed my face and brushed my hair before securing it into a braid. I let my hands fall to my lap as I considered the frame of my bed in the mirror. The four poster would certainly be sturdy enough to hold my weight as I hung from a noose. I could easily fashion one from the bed sheet. I was confident with all manner of knots thanks to my visits to the stables.

  I spun around at a knock on the door.

  Marybeth entered, keeping her eyes lowered as she approached. “I am to watch over you until your nuptials.”

  “Are you to sleep in here with me?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  I placed my hands on my knees and bowed my head. My stomach lodged in my throat. I had successfully been stripped of all free will. I could not even choose how and when I was to die. For the remainder of my life, I was to be shackled to a detestable man for one reason only—I had been born a girl to parents of high social standing. If I were a maid, would I have a choice in whom was to be my groom?

  I assessed Marybeth in the mirror. “Do you love Tobias?”

  “I do.” She dipped her chin.

  “And yet
you cannot be with him unless it is a clandestine arrangement. How is that fair?”

  “’Tis an injustice of our times, miss.”

  “If you and he were of equal social standing, would you have the chance to be together?”

  “I imagine so. My sisters have all chosen fine working men.”

  Hm. There was hope for this world. “What is it about my uncle that attracts you so?”

  “He is a charming, honourable man, despite what anyone may think. He abides by his duties. I cannot resist him, no matter how hard I try. My heart chose for me. My mind had no say in the matter.”

  “Indeed.” I pressed the heels of my palms to my cheeks, capturing the tears that fell. “You and I have much in common. Forbidden love is a torturous affair. Though a blind eye is turned to my uncle’s indiscretions, mine are seen as unforgivable.” I smiled a sad smile. “Love does not choose according to suitability of status, morality, or any rules of humanity.” I reached for her hand and clasped it in mine. “Love—true love—is infinitely wiser than we.” This time, my smile was genuine.

  “I carry his child.” Her chest rose and held in place as she bit her lip.

  My eyes sprang wide. “Is he aware?”

  “Yes.” She slipped her hand from mine before locking her fingers together. “He intends to support us, but he cannot acknowledge the child as his own.”

  “How will you manage raising a child and attending to your duties?”

  “We all band together to raise the babies, miss. We are fortunate that Mr Beauchamp allows us to have our families near.”

  How was it that my father could be extraordinarily accommodating with the staff, but deny his only daughter any happiness? My father believed a woman’s primary role was to bear children. Perhaps this was his way of justifying keeping them in his employ.

  “Then I am most happy for you, Marybeth.”

  If I could not attain any level of joy, I prayed that Marybeth would get my share.

  Ben

  Rockhampton, Australia

  24th of July, 2009

  I’d fucked up big time and now I didn’t know how to fix it. It was smoko break on a Friday, and like the sad fuck that I was, I sat alone in my ute listening to Beyoncé singing about angelic headgear. Fucking halos. Andy had one. I had devil horns. What kind of a bastard took his girlfriend’s virginity and then fucked off without a word? I smacked my forehead on the steering wheel, spotting the red mark in the mirror when I straightened. Good. It was like an X-marks-the-spot of where my dick currently was—front and centre on my head. I growled at my reflection.

  The passenger door opened and I punched at the stereo to shut off the sappy chick music, switching it to a rock station.

  Brad took a seat, apple in hand, chewing as he eyed me sideways. “I think we’ve given you enough time to mope around. I’m surprised you haven’t cut off a finger yet.”

  I nearly had about an hour ago while using the drop saw.

  “It has been tough keeping Stewart from you. He’s pissed, mate. Andy hasn’t said anything, but despite appearances, Stewart isn’t a dumb fuck. He’s noticed your absence. What gives?”

  I covered my mouth with a hand, pressing in my cheeks.

  “Okay, let me guess. You cheated on her?” He took another bite of his apple, watching me. I didn’t respond. “No? Okay. You ... found her screwing around?”

  I let go of my face and gave him my best you’re the dumb-fuck look.

  “I didn’t believe it either. Okay, um ... she dumped you because your dick is too small?”

  My mouth flattened and I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, turning my attention outside.

  “You guys love each other. What the fuck happened?”

  I shot him a glare. “My father fucked with my head. That’s what happened.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s a serial liar, so why would you believe anything he said or did, ever?”

  Lee had a point. My nineteen-year-old-self understood this. My seven-year-old-self had yet to learn.

  I’d been over it a million times. There was no excuse for what I’d done. And the longer I let things go without talking to her, the further any chance of her taking me back got.

  I’d watched her sleeping that night. Her blonde hair spread out on the pillow, lips puffed out and slack as she dreamt. Her naked body had pressed against me, and fuck me, I’d wanted her again. I’d wanted to be a selfish prick and wake her up with my tongue, but she’d needed sleep. She also deserved a guy who would’ve been gentle her first time. Someone who wouldn’t put his hand in her pants while her sister was in the same room.

  What the fuck was wrong with me? I was just like my dad. I’d taken her virginity on her narrow single bed while her sister slept down the hall. I’d wanted to make her feel special. Do the flowers and chocolates thing, and take her away for a weekend once she’d finished school. I’d only had to wait six more months, for fuck’s sake.

  “Hey.”

  My head cranked to the side to find Lee frowning at me, the masticated apple core pinched between his thumb and pointer finger.

  “You’re a mess. Get your deadbeat dad out of your head. He’s ruined enough. Let him go now. You’re not him.”

  He was right.

  But after what I’d done, how could I convince Andy that I wasn’t that guy?

  _____

  Emmeline

  Hampshire, England

  14th July, 1867, in the wee hours

  Jolted from a nightmare, I found my arms pulled above my head, my wrists locked under a tight grip. A heavy palm gripped my chin, muffling my screams—my nightmare come to life.

  Reginald Fortescue’s brandy-soaked breath poured over my face. “Do not scream.”

  He freed my mouth to reach for the hem of my gown before yanking it to my waist. I screamed before he smashed his mouth onto mine. He tasted bitter. I struggled in a futile effort to unchain myself from his restraints. His knees pushed my legs wider and he dropped his weight on top of me before reaching down to shove his length into my body. My cry of pain caught in my throat with nowhere to go. He pulled his lips from mine, replacing them with his hand. His skin smelled of brandy and vomit. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting the sight of him to etch into my memories.

  “Open your eyes!” he spat. “I will be the last man who was inside you as you stand at the altar.” He slurred his words, eyes boring into mine. His body drove into me with hard thrusts.

  This was nothing like the love I’d made with Sebastian. This was dominance, control, power. This was the crushing of my soul into tiny irretrievable pieces. The movement of his body against mine was like sand in the eyes, grazed knees, sunburn. This was pain. And he was enjoying it.

  He removed his hand to land a blow across my face. A burst of agony fanned out from my jaw before his palm smothered my cries. He did it again, landing a fist to the opposite side to even his score before cutting off my air. I tried to tilt my head to free my nose from the press of his hand, but he pushed my head farther into the pillow, rendering me immobile.

  I stopped fighting against him. What was the point? It was already too late. He had taken from me, had violated my body and my spirit in irrevocable ways. My eyes rolled to the side.

  Where was Marybeth?

  Had she run? Had the earl threatened her, or worse, hurt her?

  I prayed that she was safe. She needed to protect her baby. This would all be over soon.

  For this occasion, if not forever.

  If I survived, in a matter of hours, I would be his wife. He could do whatever he pleased with me. I would be kept among his many possessions, there to play with when the desire struck.

  With a grunt, his movements became erratic before one final push. He collapsed on top of me, his grip on my wrists and my face falling free.

  I gasped for air, waiting for him to move. He did not. His harsh breathing quickly transformed into soft snores. I pushed on his shoulders, sliding my top half out from under him. Di
gging my heels and hands into the bed, I scrambled away, leaving him asleep face down. I stood to the side, taking in the trail of blood left on the sheets. The evidence of his deed ran down my thighs. I dashed to the washbowl, needing to clean myself immediately. I wanted him off me. Sobbing, I scrubbed with the cloth until the water in the bowl was red and my thighs were raw. Using clean water from the pitcher, I rinsed down my legs before patting my skin dry.

  I stood on the towel as it soaked up my mess, assessing my reflection. No amount of washing would ever clean me of his mark. It was there in the hollows under my eyes, and the pallor of my skin. It was there in the haunted look, setting in for the duration. Bruises bloomed on each side of my face. They would fade. His mark of violation would not. Turning away, I dressed in clean drawers and a nightgown. I grimaced at the touch of fabric against my sensitive thighs. Hobbling to the door, I opened it.

  Sitting on the floor beside the entry, Marybeth had her hands clasped in her lap as she cried. “I could not stop him, miss. I tried.”

  “Shh. Do not cry. Did he hurt you?”

  She rubbed at her arm, a hand print clearly visible and turning a dark shade of blue.

  Repugnant beast of a man.

  “He has passed out from the drink. Let us go until he wakes.”

  “But, miss, your wedding dress—”

  “Let him wear it. Come now.”

  We rounded the corner, reaching the top of the staircase.

  My father was approaching from the opposite direction, candlelight flickering over his scowl. “What is going on? Why are you out of bed?”

  Marybeth and I turned to each other. I drew in a breath, squaring my shoulders. “The earl is currently asleep in my bed. He felt the need to force himself upon me prior to making me his wife.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “See it with your own eyes if you do not believe me. Witness the blood on the bed and in the washbowl. See the bruises on my face and wrists. That is the doing of the man you have chosen for me.”

  I could not contain my disdain. How could the man forsake his own child? Given the opportunity to atone for his sins and remedy the injustice, would he take it?